


On One Condition

by elwenyere



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Canon-Typical Violence, Getting Together, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28510950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwenyere/pseuds/elwenyere
Summary: When someone calls in a hit on billionaire Tony Stark, Steve Rogers is assigned to protect him.A Community Gift for the Cap-IM Holiday Exchange!
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 60
Kudos: 342
Collections: 2020 Captain America/Iron Man Holiday Exchange





	On One Condition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cap Iron Man Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cap+Iron+Man+Community).



> This is a fill for the following prompt in the 2020 Cap-IM Holiday Exchange: Community Prompts: "there's no way in hell I'm leaving you behind"/Steve as Tony's bodyguard AU. A very happy holidays to the fandom!
> 
> CW: canon-typical violence (non-graphic)

“You’ve got quite the eye for arrangement.”

Steve looked up from the gladiolas he’d been selecting to see a middle-aged woman beaming at him across the counter, and his stance shifted as he scanned for any signs that she had recognized him. Normally he wouldn’t worry about going incognito in public – bodyguards didn’t tend to draw much attention when they weren’t standing next to politicians or A-list actors – but ever since the incident at the silent auction, Steve’s face had been popping up in the occasional news story about his client, Tony Stark. No one but Steve and Pepper was supposed to know that Tony had taken this impromptu trip to Richmond, and if Steve got made while running errands…

But the woman at the register seemed relaxed: no fidgeting hands or beads of sweat or any of the other indicators of stress that people about to accost a celebrity usually displayed.

“Special occasion?” she asked him.

“A special person,” Steve replied. It didn’t quite explain the flowers, but it had the virtue of being true. And it seemed like a simpler explanation than, “the wealthy client I’m paid to protect just wiped the floor with a senior member of the Senate Armed Services Committee, and I’m looking for a gift that threads the needle between ‘generic professional sentiment’ and ‘I’ve recently developed an interest in cooking you dinner and washing your hair.’”

“Excuse me for a moment,” Steve said, digging into his pocket to pull out the phone that had just started playing the chorus of “I Will Always Love You.” Steve had put up a show of annoyance about Tony’s new hobby of hacking his phone and changing his ring tone to songs from _The Bodyguard_ (last week a group of Stark Industries shareholders had been treated to the first thirty seconds of “I’m Every Woman” when Steve had forgotten to silence his phone before a Board meeting), but the corner of his mouth was tugging upward as he slid right to cut off a dramatic key change.

“I have no idea why Pepper threatened to staple the definition of ‘low-profile’ to the inside of your jacket,” Steve greeted Tony, wandering away from the counter. “You’re so naturally subtle.”

A long pause followed, and Steve felt his hand tighten around his phone.

“Tony,” he urged. “What’s going on?”

The foot traffic outside the store faded to a dull whisper as Steve strained to pick up the small intake of breath from the other end of the call.

“The mail finally came,” Tony said finally, “and the water bill’s due.”

“Get out of there,” Steve snapped. “I’m on my way.”

He had started sprinting as soon as Tony finished the last word, and he was halfway down the block toward their hotel before he realized he still had the bouquet clutched in one hand. He threw it down and started pumping his arms faster, his feet kicking against pavement with a rhythm that couldn’t quite match the heartbeat hammering against his chest.

One block: he should never have let Tony talk him into leaving the rest of the security team in D.C. If Tony would just take the threats _seriously_ , after everything that had happened.

Two blocks: but Tony wasn’t the real problem, and Steve knew it. Steve should have handed this case off to Clint the second he found himself wanting to tuck a blanket around Tony’s shoulders. If it weren’t for his unprofessional crush, Steve would never have been stupid enough to risk leaving Tony alone just so he could surprise him with _flowers_ , of all the pathetic gestures. Steve would be in the room right now, ready to protect Tony – ready to do his _fucking_ job.

Three blocks: God, please let him be in time. Please.

_Five Months Earlier_

“Tony, I need you to take this seriously.”

Pepper Potts had only spoken to Steve once before today’s meeting. But everything about her appearance – from her impeccably coordinated accessories to the promise of efficiency she had telegraphed with just three taps of her nails against the conference table – tended to confirm his sense of someone who would tighten any ship she was running. Even Steve, who had taken orders from four-star generals, had found his spine straightening when she shook his hand. And considering the finely honed stare she was currently leveling in her boss’s direction, Steve supposed that Tony Stark’s display of nonchalance might have been almost impressive – if it weren’t also so annoying.

“I submit that I am taking this exactly as seriously as it deserves to be taken,” Tony retorted, leaning back in his chair and scrolling idly through his phone. “This is not my first proverbial rodeo, Pep. I broke a hundred death threats before I got my learner’s permit. That’s why I have Happy. That’s why I have a whole security team – not to mention a decorated Air Force Colonel who, I happen to know, loves to be called at all hours of the day when I need the smallest little thing. So really, I fail to see why this threat is any different from the last dozen or so would-be Lone Gunmen just because the person who sent the tip used an embarrassingly childish codename.”

“HYDRA isn’t one person,” Steve put in. “It’s a network of assassins who specialize in high-profile targets. And if it’s true that someone hired them to put a hit on you, then – with all due respect to your current staff – this situation is out of SI’s league.”

It was Steve’s first contribution to the discussion since he’d introduced himself, and Tony glanced up from his phone long enough to give him another once over, his gaze lingering on the places where Steve’s shirt pulled tight against his chest. Steve’s eyes barely flickered in response. He was used to attracting that kind of attention by now. Physical build was part of what the firm considered when assigning an agent to a new client, and Fury’s instinct that obvious brawn would be more helpful in Stark’s case than stealth or discretion was part of why Steve was taking this meeting instead of Natasha or Sharon.

And, of course, Steve could hardly have done any research into his potential client without seeing headlines about the man’s extracurricular exploits. After skimming a _Bossip_ story about the afterparty for the men’s World Cup quarterfinal, Steve was less surprised to find himself on the receiving end of Tony Stark’s attention than he was to realize that the tabloid photos had totally failed to do justice to his eyelashes.

“This you?” Tony asked him. And he must have been doing research of his own, because when he reached across the table to show Steve his phone, it was displaying the _New York Times_ story about Gulmira. Steve’s eyes jumped away from the accompanying photo: a group of men, huddled behind the remains of a wall that was still exploding toward the camera, dust and debris obscuring all of their faces except one. Shortly after the picture had been taken, the photojournalist had won second prize in the White House News Photographer’s Association awards, Captain Steven Grant Rogers had been awarded a Medal of Honor, and over a hundred people had been killed.

“Not anymore,” Steve replied evenly. “Now I’m your protection agent, Mr. Stark. That is, I will be, if you agree to my conditions.”

“Your _conditions_?” Tony repeated, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Most of them are the firm’s,” Steve clarified. “Those are in the paperwork Ms. Potts showed you. One of them is mine: that if under any circumstances I say ‘run,’ you run.”

“I’m more of a Muy-Thai-and-calisthenics guy,” Tony replied.

“He’ll take the conditions,” Pepper promised, her eyes narrowing and one foot shooting toward Tony’s shin under the table.

“I’m afraid I’ll need to get a verbal commitment from Mr. Stark,” Steve insisted. “If you can’t accept those terms, you can ask to be assigned to a different agent, or you can try your luck with your existing team. But you should know this: no one calls HYDRA because they’ve got a celebrity crush – or even because they’re nursing a grudge against an old boss. People call HYDRA because they want someone erased from the picture. Their agents are efficient, they’re ruthless, and you won’t hear a whisper of the organization’s name until they’re already on the inside. So if I were you, I’d retain my services.”

Steve might have expected that a man like Tony Stark – whose tendency to ditch corporate functions to go base jumping in Hong Kong was the stuff of _TMZ_ legend – would bristle at the tone he’d taken. But instead he watched as a grin spread slowly across the billionaire’s face.

“All right, Captain Bossypants,” Tony said. “You’re hired.”

_Ten Days After That_

“All right, Captain Tightass, you’re fired,” Tony snapped.

He had waited to corner Steve until they made it out of the press conference and into a quiet hallway. And watching the slope of Tony’s shoulders shift from indolent to exhausted the moment the two of them were alone, Steve was forced to adjust his assessment of Tony’s tendency to play bored in public.

Because truth be told, the event had turned chaotic long before Steve had gotten involved. As soon as Tony had announced that Stark Industries was going to be phasing out weapons development and diverting resources to a clean energy program, the room had erupted in flashbulbs and shouted questions. Tony’s friend Colonel Rhodes had shuffled uneasily out of parade rest, Pepper had clutched her clipboard hard enough to turn her fingers white, and – in Steve’s defense – no one had previously introduced him to the broad-shouldered man he’d just knocked backward into a podium.

“Obie is my business partner,” Tony said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You can’t just give him the forearm shiver on national television.”

“He stepped into your space without warning,” Steve explained. “And he blocked my access to you.”

There had been something else too, and though Steve couldn’t have framed a professional explanation for why the sight of Stane looming over Tony had raised his hackles, he’d learned to trust the instinct that told him to get in the way first and ask questions later.

“Well then we’ve got to work out some kind of system here,” Tony countered, “because I don’t know if your eagle eyes have picked up on this, but a lot of people get close to me. And letting them get close to me is one of the only things I do for this company that Pepper couldn’t do better.”

Steve’s brow furrowed, something in Tony’s words setting off the same bell that had prompted him to put distance between Tony and Stane. He opened his mouth to press the issue but shut it again when someone from the P.R. team – Sitwell, he thought – poked his head down the hall to give them the universal signal for “what’s taking so long?”

“Tell Pepper I’ll be with her in two shakes of the stick up Agent Rogers’ ass,” Tony called out. Sitwell, who luckily did not appear to be the type to repeat that message verbatim, confined himself to a tap of his watch before he disappeared around the corner again.

“I’ll get to know the people you trust, Mr. Stark,” Steve said once they were alone, “But for as long as this threat is active, they’ll have to get to know me too. I’m here to put your safety first, and the people who can be trusted with it shouldn’t have a problem accepting a few limits to their access.”

“Limits like the occasional stiff-arm to the sternum,” Tony pointed out.

“If the situation calls for it,” Steve agreed.

Tony sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, and for a moment Steve saw the flicker of a different face – another sweep of brown hair – as someone reached down to pull him up from the alley pavement.

“It’s a good thing that you did,” Steve found himself saying abruptly. “In the press conference. I can tell it’s going to make some people unhappy. But you were right to do it. The world doesn’t need more weapons.”

Tony’s eyes traced a rapid circuit across Steve’s face before flicking away down the hallway.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered finally, “you’re not wrong about losing the popularity vote. So just try not to put any of my employees through a wall when this hits the fan.”

_Two Months Later_

“I’m just saying that _theoretically_ , if a person wanted to demonstrate that he had a working knowledge of any pop culture that postdated Jerry Lee Lewis – and thus that he was not, in fact, born with the soul of a 94-year-old man – that person would be able to tell me who their favorite Spice Girl was.”

Tony was walking back into the penthouse as he spoke, loosening his tie and rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves in what Steve now recognized as part of his post-office ritual. Talking, too, was integral to the process – the flow of words helping to unknot whatever strings held the public performance of Tony Stark together – and though Steve was sure Tony would have solicited participation from whoever happened to be around, he had started to look forward to those few minutes at the end of the day when Tony tried to draw him out.

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information,” Steve said, laying one hand on Tony’s shoulder to signal a pause while he scanned the perimeter of the room. “There are two very specific clauses in our contracts: no talking about former clients and no disclosing our personal opinions about Posh Spice.”

"Okay, first of all, and for the four hundredth time: JARVIS sweeps all the residential floors before I enter, so you can stop doing the whole ‘Eagle has landed’ routine every time we change rooms. Second, and more importantly, did you just _sass_ me?”

“Sassing, surprisingly, is permitted by the contracts,” Steve replied.

“See now that was two jokes in a row. That’s got to be some kind of personal record, right? You didn’t even have to pause to regroup with a stern one-liner. I think that’s a sign that I’m having a good influence on you.”

“Or maybe you’re just getting better at detecting humor that’s pitched at a lower volume than your eyewear.”

“Rude,” Tony replied, moving into the kitchen to grab a mug from the cupboards. “That one doesn’t count for your total, because it’s rude and it’s unfounded.”

Steve let Tony continue his monologue while he conducted a sweep of the room. He knew his habit of checking the undersides of tables and couches was probably drawing eye rolls from the direction of the kitchen, but Steve had his own strategies for unwinding the tension that bunched up like barbed wire at the back of his neck. This time, however, he barely made it to the coffee table in the common area before his nerves started firing in alarm. Something was wrong – something _had_ to be wrong – because Tony had fallen silent.

Steve straightened quickly to see Tony staring down at a piece of paper, his face pale and still.

“What is it, Mr. Stark?” Steve asked, and then after a pause, “Tony?”

“It’s nothing,” Tony replied, and then grimaced in response to Steve’s raised eyebrow. “Okay, it’s something.”

Steve walked over briskly, digging a pair of gloves out of his pocket. As soon as he had them on, he held out a hand to ask Tony for the paper. Tony chewed on his lip for a moment and then handed it over, leaning back against the counter as Steve read it through.

 _“Laying down a weapon doesn’t stop it from being used,”_ the typescript announced, _“How many more people will die because of a Stark?”_

“It was just sitting on the counter,” Tony admitted, “which means whoever put it here has access to the override codes for the building’s security system.”

Steve placed the paper carefully on the counter and peeled off one of his gloves to retrieve his phone.

“I need to call some colleagues,” he said. “Do I have your permission to send this to Dr. Banner in our lab?”

“Hmm?” Tony asked absently. “Oh yeah, sure. Knock yourself out.” He was still staring down at the paper, and all the lines of his body that had been relaxing since they got home had snapped taut again. Steve felt his own chest tighten at the sight, his jaw clenching as if preparing to take a punch.

"Tony,” he said, wrapping his free hand gently around the back of Tony’s arm, “we’ll find out who’s doing this.”

_One Month More_

They were almost out the door when it happened.

The silent auction had been a night full of glad-handing and photo ops for Tony, which meant a night of scrutinizing New York’s wealthiest for Steve. By the time Tony congratulated the last of the auction winners, twisting his head over his shoulder just far enough to mouth “finally” at an angle only Steve would catch, Steve felt sure that he had scanned more Botoxed faces and overpriced cuff links than there were people in Manhattan – let alone people rich enough to afford a $50,000-minimum-bid dinner.

They were just starting to make their way toward the exit when Steve’s eyes suddenly froze on a stocky man with slicked-back hair: his shoes were too scuffed, his weight too far forward on the balls of his feet, and even from a distance, his right hand seemed to shake as it reached across his body. By the time something metallic glinted at the edge of the man’s jacket, Steve was already moving.

“Everybody down!” he yelled, grabbing Tony’s shoulder with one hand and pulling him backward and toward the ground. With the same momentum, he lunged forward, twisting to put the bulk of his body between Tony and the man in the jacket. As Steve dropped to cover Tony’s position on the floor, two shots rang through the room, and something hot and sharp snicked across his side like a bee sting. Steve wrapped his arms around Tony’s head, hunching his shoulders to be sure he had shielded his torso completely, but he couldn’t hear any additional shots over the screams of the guests.

“Shit!” Tony swore, lurching against Steve’s chest in an effort to rise.

“Stay down until we get the clear,” Steve insisted, holding his position as Tony pushed at his shoulders.

“People could be hurt,” Tony shouted up at him furiously.

“You’re the target,” Steve shouted back. “Everyone is safer with you on the ground.”

Tony stopped pushing, though his hands remained fisted in the shoulders of Steve’s jacket as the yelling around them slowly subsided. Steve took a series of deep breaths, drawing his attention to the scuttling of stilettos, the tinkle of dropped china: all the signs that he was on the floor of a New York ballroom, not huddled against a barricade in the desert, waiting for the air around him to explode.

“We got him, boss!” Happy’s voice called at last.

Tony started moving immediately, and Steve placed one hand lightly on his chest to remind him to stay close. When they got to their feet, Steve ran through a rapid inspection of their surroundings, his fingers still brushing over the lapels of Tony’s tux. Most of the guests had been escorted out of the room by Happy’s team by now, with just a few stragglers gawking around the exits. Pepper was exchanging heated words with the man in charge of door security, who looked like he was seriously considering changing his name and leaving the country.

“The police tried to take the shooter into custody, but he took some kind of poison,” Happy told them, holstering his gun as he walked over. “They called 911, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to make it.”

“Is anyone else hurt?” Tony asked.

“Just your bodyguard, from the looks of it,” Happy responded, nodding down at the spot where Steve had felt the bullet slice against his ribs.

Steve could see Tony’s eyes widen as he followed Happy’s gaze and spied the dark splotch spreading across Steve’s shirt.

“Jesus. Fuck,” Tony cursed viciously. His expression had hardened in an instant, but his touch was gentle as he spun Steve toward him and pulled the fabric of away from the wound.

“I’m fine, Tony,” Steve said. “It was just a graze. I’ve had much worse.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Tony snapped. “Happy, call Dr. Cho and tell her we’re sending a helicopter to pick her up.”

He pulled the pocket square from his tux and pressed it firmly against Steve’s side, wrapping his other hand around Steve’s back to get better leverage.

“I don’t need a doctor,” Steve assured Happy.

“The fuck you don’t!” Tony retorted, his eyes snapping up to meet Steve’s. Something in Tony’s expression speared through Steve's chest like a second bullet, leaving a burning trail through his center. But almost as soon as Steve registered its presence, it was gone again, a blank stare falling across Tony’s face like the slamming of a door.

“Tony,” Steve tried again, more gently. “I’m okay. I promise.”

He laid his hand over Tony’s where it was pressed to his side, but Tony jerked back as if he’d been burned, leaving Steve to hold the pocket square in place.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” Tony muttered darkly.

_One Week After That_

“This kind of thing _cannot_ happen,” Steve grit out, his jaw aching with the effort of keeping his voice in check.

He’d managed to wait to confront Tony until they’d made it out of the gala and back to the Tower, but it had been a close thing. Waves of adrenaline were still coursing through his body every time he remembered the moment, halfway through the dessert course, when he’d looked back from his scan of the dance floor to see that Tony had disappeared from his side. In the ten minutes before Tony reappeared again – hands full of whiskey sours and a blonde socialite in a plunging red gown – Steve had told Happy to seal the exits, called Fury to have agents on stand-by, and barely stopped himself from clasping Tony’s arms in relief when he finally recognized his voice. The more time had passed, however, the more the relief had given way to frustration. And by the time they made it back to the penthouse, Steve could feel his teeth grinding at the casual way Tony was tossing his jacket over the back of the couch.

“You’re right: this can’t happen,” Tony retorted. “Because I’m not going to lose tens of thousands of dollars in charitable donations to a full-building lockdown every time you lose track of me for a few minutes. The shooter’s dead, Rogers. Were you planning on hovering over my shoulder until his soul clears purgatory?”

“We’ve been over this,” Steve fired back. “We have no way of knowing whether that shooter had any connection to the threats from HYDRA. He wasn’t a match for the partial print Banner found or for the profile Natasha put together. That attempt could just as easily have been _designed_ to fail – to get us to lower our guard.”

“Well then it’s a good thing Captain Constant Vigilance is here to remind us what it looks like to be forever on our guard,” Tony said sarcastically. “I’m curious: if you tried to unclench right now, would something physically fall out you?”

“Hilarious, Tony,” Steve replied. “This whole night has been a real barrel of laughs, starting from the moment when I thought you’d been kidnapped, but it turned out you were just picking up the first person who batted their eyelashes at you.”

Tony’s eyes flashed, and Steve felt the start of a flush creeping up the back of his neck. He hadn’t meant to bring up the woman from the bar – wasn’t sure why that part of the night had even been on his mind – and he knew that last remark had definitely been over the line.

“What I do with my social life is none of your business,” Tony said evenly.

“You can do whatever you want in the safety of your home,” Steve tried again, “but you have to stop trying to shake me when we’re in public. If you won’t let me stay close, then I can’t do my job.”

Tony’s face twitched momentarily before settling into a hard stare.

“Sure, Rogers. Fine. Whatever you want. No need for the two week’s notice: don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“God, Tony, this is exactly what I’m talking about! I wasn’t trying to quit, and you definitely shouldn’t let me. Someone took a shot at you last week! Your _life_ is in danger. Why are you suddenly refusing to give me _an inch_ of room to protect it?”

“Because it’s not worth it, Steve!” Tony yelled. He let out an explosive breath and ran his hand over his face and through his hair.

“You got hurt,” he continued, holding up a hand as Steve opened his mouth. “And don’t give me the ‘just a graze’ bullshit – a few inches to the left, and you could have been in critical condition. Just a foot to the right, and maybe it’s Happy. Or Pepper. Or some guy with a wife and three kids. And it’s not worth turning over my privacy, my freedom of movement, my ability to fucking _relax_ for ten goddamn minutes - just so someone else can get shot instead of me.”

“You mean you think _you’re_ not worth it,” Steve corrected. “You think your life isn’t worth as much as theirs.”

Tony’s face hardened again, and he took two steps forward, so close to Steve that he had to tilt his head back to look into Steve’s eyes.

“That is some pretty smug psychoanalyzing coming from you,” he said. “I’ve seen your military records, Rogers: multiple promotions, service with distinction, wounded during a high-profile rescue operation that pulled a dozen soldiers out of enemy hands. When you got discharged, you were getting recruited by West Point, Academi, Halliburton. You could have waltzed your way into a position at any private security firm in the country, and instead you ran straight toward the first job you could find that would allow you to take bullets professionally – the only career that would take your pathological need to be the first one in the line of fire and turn it into a job responsibility.”

Steve swallowed heavily, not sure if he was fighting the urge to step out of Tony’s space or further into it. At this range, the series of expressions that flitted across Tony’s face was almost dizzying, and with his nerves still on fire from the frenzied search at the gala, Steve felt momentarily like he was swaying on the edge of a cliff.

“We need to have a code,” he said finally, dragging his eyes away from Tony’s with a physical effort. Tony blinked, as if in confusion, and the ground settled under Steve’s feet again. “If you need space while I’m on the job,” he continued, “we need to have a code, so you can let me know if there’s trouble. Because you’re not going to convince me to quit – or whatever it was you tried to do tonight. I’m not leaving until this is over.”

Tony stared at him a little longer, his eyes flicking down to the place where an angry red line still striped across Steve’s ribs. Then he nodded in acknowledgment and turned away to flop onto the couch behind him.

“In that case, feel free to take advantage of the premium cable,” Tony offered, turning on the TV.

Steve hesitated momentarily, reviewing the terms of the truce, and then joined Tony on the couch. He let his head fall back against the cushions, the muscles in his shoulders gradually relaxing as Tony surfed through the channels.

_Two Weeks Before Richmond_

“Can I ask you a question?” Tony asked.

Steve looked up from his sketch to see Tony watching him from the other end of the couch. Ever since the night at the gala, it had become more common for Steve to stick around for an hour or two after the workday wrapped up. Tonight, they’d been sharing an assortment of take-out noodles and pot stickers while Tony reviewed some new designs on his tablet and Steve doodled in a notebook.

“Your one condition,” Tony continued. “It’s because you lost someone?”

Steve had to pause to swallow past a sudden tightness in his throat. He hadn't talked about Gulmira in months, and he wasn't even sure he could get the words out anymore. Tony waited, tipping his head sideways to rest on one hand, as if to offer Steve time to decide what to offer in response.

“My best friend,” Steve answered finally. “Bucky. Our unit was conducting a rescue operation, and we got pinned down, took shelter in a general store. A missile came through the window and landed just feet away from me. It didn’t go off right away, but I was afraid any movement would trigger it. Bucky was already hurt: he’d taken a bullet to the thigh the day before. I told him to get out, and he didn’t.”

Steve broke off, discovering that he still couldn’t describe the rest of the events out loud: their decision to make a run for it in spite of Bucky’s injury, the whine of the device arming itself, the look on Bucky’s face when they both realized Steve wasn’t going to make it in time to shield him from the blast.

“I woke up in a hospital three days later and found out I was getting a medal,” Steve finished, looking down at the notepad in his hand and making a conscious effort to release his grip on the edges of the page.

“You didn’t mention it was a Stark missile,” Tony pointed out after a pause. When Steve looked over in surprise, he saw Tony’s lips had twisted into an ironic smile. “The army tried to bury that incident report you wrote, but I found it the day after we hired you. I wasn’t stalking: I promise. I just had to double check that you weren’t out for revenge – which would have been understandable, by the way.”

“You’re not responsible for the way other people used your products,” Steve replied, and then, because something had started itching at the back of his mind, “but you thought you were. The press conference…you announced the end of weapons development the next week.”

“Well, it wasn’t just what I read in your report,” Tony explained. “Pepper had told me she’d noticed something funny with some shipments over the past few months. I hadn’t paid it a lot of attention – it will shock you to discover that it has not always been easy for Pep to get me to focus on the details of business operations – but seeing the results sitting in front of me…I guess I needed one last, annoyingly chiseled kick in the ass, and you provided it.”

“You barely knew me then,” Steve said, his brow furrowing.

“Exactly,” Tony nodded. “Those first few days, that was when I had my highest opinion of you. Of course I wouldn’t hold that press conference _now_ : it’s all been pretty much downhill from there.”

Steve rolled his eyes and tossed a packet of soy sauce at Tony’s head.

“You’re doing it again,” Steve informed him.

“Doing what? Speaking truth to power?”

“Deflecting as soon as someone’s about to notice something nice about you.”

“There’s nothing nice about what happened to you, Steve,” Tony said quickly, his face twisting. “People should be held accountable for that – not given a fucking pat on the back for saying sorry.”

“You _did_ hold yourself accountable,” Steve objected. “You changed the whole direction of the company. You withdrew from standing contracts with the U.S. military.”

“Ugh don’t remind me about the senate hearing,” Tony groaned. “Every time I get subpoenaed I end up saying something that requires me to buy Pepper another pair of shoes.”

“You’re a good man, Tony,” Steve insisted.

Tony broke eye contact, his shoulders twitching partway toward a shrug. Sensing he’d made about as much progress toward convincing Tony of the truth as he could reasonably expect to make, Steve decided to beat a tactical retreat.

“Are the Mets playing tonight?” he asked, stretching out comfortably on the couch.

Tony took the hint and turned on the game. They talked stats for a while, and Tony kept up a running commentary for a few innings before dozing off, his tablet still held loosely in one hand. When Steve stood up to go, he stopped to lay a blanket around Tony’s shoulders, his fingers lingering a moment when he noticed Tony’s hair had gotten caught against the cushion. He was about to reach out and smooth it over, a small smile forming on his lips at the way Tony's smile lines relaxed in his sleep, and then he froze, his fingers hovering an inch away from delicately brushing his client’s hair.

“Fuck,” he swore.

_Present Day_

By the time Steve made it back to the hotel, a group of people was milling outside, half of their faces angled upward at something near the top of the building. Steve followed their line of sight, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw the smoke coming from the direction of Tony's room on the fourth floor. The harassed-looking hotel manger looked momentarily like she was going to try to stop Steve from entering the building, but she must have seen something in his face that made her change her mind, because she jumped out of the way as he charged through the front door.

The lobby was deserted, the only sound the slow wail of the fire alarm. Steve paused for only a cursory scan before he headed for the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time, gun at the ready. As he neared the fourth floor, the air thickened with haze, and Steve could see a steady stream of smoke pouring out from underneath the door to their hallway. He was about to reach for the handle when he heard a muffled shout from above, and his heart did a horrible, hopeful leap in his chest: a shout meant a struggle, but a struggle meant that Tony was still alive. It meant that Steve might still be in time. Pulse pounding in his ears, he sprinted the last set of stairs, took a deep breath, and cracked the door slowly open.

From his angle on the edge of the rooftop bar, Steve noticed three things in quick succession: (1) Tony was alive, and he was currently crouched behind the limited cover of an overturned table and couch; (2) there were two gunmen circling toward Tony’s position, and both of them would have clear shots in just under fifteen seconds; (3) Steve would only have time to take out one of the assailants before they fired.

Training his gun on the agent who was padding toward Tony from behind, Steve stepped onto the roof.

“Over here, assholes,” he shouted, waiting a split second for two guns to pivot in his direction before he squeezed the trigger. The agent behind Tony dropped immediately, and Steve dove sideways to duck behind a couch. Just before he landed, a second shot rang out, and something that felt like a scalding pebble kicked through Steve’s lower left side. He was just adjusting his position to return fire when he heard a third gunshot, and his heart stopped.

He was about to leap to his feet, ready to make a run for Tony’s position, but before he could move, Tony was there in front of him, setting the first HYDRA agent’s gun on the ground so that he could assess the wound in Steve’s side.

“Tony,” Steve breathed, his shoulders sagging back onto the couch in relief.

“You got shot again,” Tony said accusingly, quickly shimmying out of his jacket so he could press the fabric to the growing pool of red on Steve’s abdomen. “How did you make it in the army so long if you keep getting shot all the time?”

“I’m very stubborn,” Steve explained, letting out a sharp hiss as Tony put pressure on the wound.

“You don’t fucking say!” Tony replied. “By the way…did you seriously shout ‘over here, assholes’ when you came out of the stairs? Is that the kind of advanced tactics they teach you in basic training these days?”

“I needed a distraction.” Steve chuckled, and then winced when the movement set off a fresh burn of pressure across his stomach. “And you’re one to talk: did you set fire to our hotel room?”

“With my phone charger and a butter knife,” Tony confirmed. “Had to get everyone else out of the hotel. But I didn’t have time to get to the stairs before I got cornered. I had to climb out the bathroom window, and it seemed easier to go one story up than four stories down.”

“You _scaled the building_?” Steve demanded.

“You told me to get out of there!” Tony grinned.

“And you still need to,” Steve said, his mind suddenly catching up to their situation. “Tony, there’s a good chance there are more agents searching the other floors. I’m not going to be able to move as quickly now. I need you to –”

“Not a chance,” Tony hissed, gripping at the fabric of Steve’s shirt as if worried Steve was going to physically shake him loose. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“Tony, you agreed to the conditions. My job is to –”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ about your job, Steve. You’re fucking fired, okay? And your new job is to live long enough to get us both out of here because there’s no way in _hell_ I’m leaving you behind.”

Tony held his gaze steadily, and Steve could almost hear Bucky’s words echoing in his ears: _Let me make my own choice, Stevie._ He closed his eyes at the memory, balling up his love and pain and regret as if he could place them in Bucky's hands: _I'm trying, Buck. I promise. I'll keep trying._

“That’s like…the sixteenth time you’ve tried to fire me,” Steve said out loud, but he clasped Tony’s arm to signal his acquiescence. “Okay, help me up.”

Tony let out a sigh of relief and pulled him gently to his feet, letting Steve keep pressure on his own side so that they could retrieve their guns. He hovered near Steve as they made their way into the stairwell, one hand ready to grab his shoulder if he needed support.

“How did you know they were coming?” Steve asked, trying to keep his mind off the burning in his gut. The smoke was even thicker now, and Steve breathed as shallowly as he could as they moved past the fourth floor.

“Something Stern said at the hearing today has been bothering me,” Tony explained. “He mentioned Gulmira twice. It was almost like he wanted it on the record, which is weird, because hardly of the details of that operation are public knowledge. In fact, I only told three people that I had found your report: you, Pepper, and Obie. And I couldn’t think of any reason why bringing up that battle would _help_ the military’s argument that they should be trusted with more Stark tech, unless –”

“Unless someone wanted to set me up to take the fall,” Steve finished. “So that means –”

“Obie sold me out,” Tony grimaced, “at the least. At worst…well, you did say HYDRA likes to work from within.”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve said.

There was so much else to apologize for – for not seeing the field clearly, for letting his feelings cloud his judgment, for leaving Tony alone – but before Steve could continue, they both froze at the sight of the third-floor door swinging open just two feet in front of them.

Steve had time to see the tip of a rifle clear the edge of the doorway, already pivoting toward the place where Tony was positioned in front of him, and then he lunged forward, using as much of his body weight as he could muster to plow the attacker backward and into the opposite wall. Molten pressure exploded through his abdomen in a wave, but he had the presence of mind to force the rifle upward, sending a spray of gunfire into the ceiling.

Somewhere behind him, Tony swore furiously, and then the rifle was being ripped away. Steve looked around to see Tony slam the butt of the gun into the top of the attacker’s head – leaving the man Steve recognized vaguely as Jasper Sitwell to collapse in a heap – and then he was slumping down the wall behind him, his torso on fire with agony.

“Steve!” Tony yelled, throwing the rifle aside and falling to his knees in front of Steve. Gentle hands brushed over the sides of Steve's face, and a distant part of his mind registered that he should really be able to see the hands - that the hallway shouldn't look like it was collapsing in around him.

“Tony,” he said.

There was something more, he thought – something else he had meant to add. But the ground was rushing up to meet the soft sensation ghosting across his forehead, and he couldn’t bring the words to mind.

“Hang on,” someone ordered him urgently, and the last thing he clung to was the sound of that voice.

The air around him was a haze of smoke and dust, and his eyes burned as he tried to clear his vision. He needed to get up, to try moving again, because someone had been calling his name.

 _Tony_.

“I’m right here, big guy,” a voice said. And Steve realized he must have spoken the name aloud, because there was Tony, smiling in a way that didn’t quite soften the lines of worry around his eyes. Steve let out a deep breath, hearing the beep of a monitor slow gradually as he oriented himself. He was lying in a hospital bed, IVs attached to his left arm and a large bandage wrapped around his midsection. Tony was perched on the edge of the bed, and – with the exception of the dark circles under his eyes and a bandage on his right hand – he appeared to be unhurt.

“You’re okay,” Steve said, needing confirmation.

“I’m fine,” Tony agreed. He gave one of Steve’s hands a squeeze, and Steve felt a very different kind of heat swoop through his stomach. “And you’re lucky that you will be too. The firefighters showed up right after you tackled my junior P.R. executive into a wall – I asked you not to do that, by the way. But I guess I’ll let it slide this one time, seeing as you saved my life and all.”

Steve grimaced, his chest suddenly feeling tight with the memory of why Tony had needed saving in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, his voice thick in his throat. “Tony, I’m so sorry. What I did…I could have gotten you killed.”

“Hey whoa,” Tony protested, holding up his hands to cut Steve off. “That’s bullshit, Steve. My business partner paid a network of goddamn assassins to take me out and frame you for the crime: that does not become your fault just because you stepped outside for your first smoke break in five months.”

“It wasn’t for a break, Tony,” Steve sighed, a deep flush burning over his face. “I was getting you flowers.”

“Flowers,” Tony repeated slowly, his face going abruptly blank.

“I should never have stayed on the case after I realized what I was feeling,” Steve continued, his fists clenching around the blankets at his side. “But I couldn’t bring myself to trust anyone else with your safety. It was arrogant and selfish, and I almost –” He broke off, heaving in a deep breath of antiseptic and pine-scented cleansers. “I wasn’t strong enough to walk away.”

There was a pause, during which the only sound was the horrible beep of the heart monitor, broadcasting Steve’s racing pulse across the room.

“Well, I’d like you to stick around,” Tony said finally. He took Steve’s hand in his again, pressing it gently this time as he ran one thumb along the edge of Steve’s palm. Steve let out a gasp in response, and a slow smile spread across Tony’s face. “But I do have one condition: you need to quit.”

“I quit,” Steve agreed immediately.

“Thank God,” Tony murmured, and then he cupped Steve’s jaw with his free hand, leaned forward, and kissed him.

It was as if someone had brushed Steve’s lips with a live wire, and before he knew it, Steve was wrapping his arms around Tony’s shoulders to draw him closer, groaning when Tony melted forward against his chest. Tony’s lips parted, and Steve pressed deeper, each sweep of his tongue against Tony’s sending a shiver of relief down his spine.

From somewhere on the bedside table, Steve’s phone erupted with the voice of Whitney Houston, the violin track reaching a crescendo just as Tony and Steve broke apart.

“Did you just call my phone so you could make out with me to the soundtrack from _The Bodyguard_?” Steve asked.

“See you phrased that as a question, but the way you said it tells me that you already know the answer,” Tony responded with a grin. Steve smiled, reaching out to weave his fingers through the hair at Tony’s temples.

“I do.”


End file.
